


Dear Father Christmas

by JenTheSweetie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Gen, M/M, don't blame me if you get a cavity, i mean really just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-16 23:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13064238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenTheSweetie/pseuds/JenTheSweetie
Summary: “So,” John said, “there’s a holiday party at the clinic next week.”This was perhaps the least remarkable thing anyone had ever said, so Sherlock ignored it.Christmas comes to Baker Street.  Sherlock and John come to their senses.





	Dear Father Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [亲爱的圣诞老人](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13190808) by [LoveBBCSH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveBBCSH/pseuds/LoveBBCSH)



> This story is like Christmas cookie: all sugar, no substance. You've been warned. 
> 
> Being part of this fandom has been one of the best parts of my 2017 - sending all of you my best wishes for a very happy holiday season and a fantastic new year.

_Dear Father Christmas_ ,

_I hope you are having a nice December!  I was very good this year.  I kept my room clean most of the time and I didn’t leave my shoes at the top of the stairs and I did all my homework even though Sherlock said it was too easy for me.  It was really easy but Daddy said that doesn’t matter and I have to do it anyway._

__

_For Christmas this year I would like:_

  * _Doctor Barbie_
  * _A set to make bracelets and things_
  * _Elsa nightgown_
  * _My own iPad (Daddy said no but I know you don’t have to listen to his rules!!)_



__

_Thank you very much!_

__

_From,_

_Rosie Watson_

_Age 5 and three quarters_

__

_P.S. Can you also send something for Sherlock?  Daddy says he is impossible to buy for but I bet you will think of something!!!_

__

-

“You got drinks with mates from work,” Sherlock said

“Yeah, it’s not an impressive deduction when I texted it to you three hours ago,” John said, hanging up his coat.

“Three beers - no, four.  And - ” Sherlock tilted his head, “a shot of whisky?”

“All right, that’s _slightly_  impressive.  Did you and Rosie have a nice night?”

“She wrote a letter to Father Christmas,” Sherlock said darkly.

“Not this again,” John said, turning on the kettle.  “I told you, I’m not _forcing_  her to believe in Father Christmas.”

“But you’re encouraging her.”

“She’s five years old!”

“My point exactly.”

“You’ll miss Father Christmas when he’s gone, mark my words.”  

“I’m sure I won’t,” Sherlock said.

Tea appeared in front of Sherlock in the way it often did shortly after John arrived home.

“So,” John said, “there’s a holiday party at the clinic next week.”

This was perhaps the least remarkable thing anyone had ever said, so Sherlock ignored it.

“Just something small.”  John took a sip of tea.  “A pot luck and a Christmas cake.  I was thinking you might like to come?”

If Sherlock had been an American in a film he would have spat out his tea.  “What could _possibly_  make you think I would want to come to that?”

“It’s just,” John said, “everyone else, they’re bringing -”

“Spouses,” Sherlock said. 

“Um, yes, but - ”

“That’s who goes to office Christmas parties.”

“Well, yes - ”

“That’s who’s _forced_  to go to office Christmas parties.”

“Well, it’s not like I’ve anyone who fits the description better!” John snapped.

Sherlock blinked.

“That sounded different in my head,” John said.

“We’re not a couple,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah,” John said, “well spotted.”

“In the traditional sense of the word.”

“Look, can we drop this?  I’m not going to make you come to the holiday party.”

Sherlock took a slow sip of tea.  “Do you _want_  - ”

“I don’t know, maybe we should be,” John said, throwing up his hands.

“ - me to come to the holiday party?”

They stared at each other.

“You weren’t answering the question I was asking,” Sherlock said.

“Yes I was.”

“No you weren’t.”

“Yes, I was,” John said.  “And now I’m going to bed.”

And he slammed down his tea and ran up the stairs while Sherlock frowned at the spot where he had been.

-

“This is intolerable,” Sherlock said.

“You throw that word around fairly casually for someone who currently has a garden snake pickling in the fridge,” John said.  

“This one!” Rosie cried, running up to the very first tree at the front of the park.  

“Sweetheart, why don’t we look at a few more?” John said.  “We don’t have to buy the very first tree we see.”

“No, it’s definitely this one,” Rosie said firmly.  “Ooh, wait, what about this one?”

“That one’s very pretty also,” John said patiently.  

“It’s dead,” Sherlock said.  

Rosie looked stricken.  “This one’s _dead_?”

“They’re all dead,” Sherlock said.

“Really?” Rosie said, horrified.

“Well,” John said, “yes, technically, because they’ve been cut down, but they’re still very nice to look at, aren’t they?

“But they’re _dead_?” Rosie said.  

“Only a bit,” Sherlock amended in a concession to Rosie’s pout.  

“Is _this_  one dead?” Rosie said, pointing to her latest beloved.

“No,” John said, stamping on Sherlock’s foot.  “Would you like this one?”

She frowned, clearly deep in thought.  “I’m not sure.  Let’s keep looking.”

“Okay, love,” John said, following her through the rows. “What is your _problem_  today?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said.  “Why are we here again?”

“To pick out a Christmas tree, and then get hot cocoa and walk around the park listening to carolers.”

“And we all had to come because...”

“Because it’s what families do,” John said. 

Sherlock went over the sentence approximately ten thousand times in his head while John became very busy looking at the tag of a limp-looking fir at the end of the row.

“My family didn’t,” Sherlock said finally.

“Well,” John said, “no offense, but I’m not sure we want to use them as a model, hm?”

“A fair point,” Sherlock said.  “Cocoa, you said?”

“Cocoa,” John said.  “After the tree.”

“Hm,” Sherlock said.  “Rosie!  What about this one?  It looks very nearly alive.”

-

“Bloody _freezing_ ,” John said.

“I told you to bring gloves,” Sherlock said, peering at a man crossing the road.  No: too tall.  

“Yeah, gloves wouldn’t have helped the fact that you’ve had us sitting outside for _four hours_ ,” John said, jiggling the empty paper cup in his hand.  

“He’s supposed to be here before ten,” Sherlock said.  “Why isn’t he - _oh_.”

“Is it him?” John said.

“Possibly,” Sherlock said.  “Late thirties, balding, not quite six feet - it’s clear from the cuffs of his jeans that works with his hands, but he could be mechanic or a carpenter, I can’t tell for sure if he’s an electrician, we’ll have to get closer - come on.”  

He slipped into the crowd, sensing rather than seeing John follow him; if he was honest he was really hoping the balding man was their suspect because he, too, was freezing his bollocks off, not that he’d admit that to John under pain of death -

“He’s spotted us,” John said.  

“I know,” Sherlock said.  The crowd had thinned rapidly, and the man had stopped on the pavement and was looking over his shoulder, frowning.

“Should we - ?” 

“Here,” Sherlock said, grabbing the sleeve of John’s coat and yanking him down into an alley.

“Shit,” John said, “he might’ve seen - ”

“Shut up,” Sherlock said, shoving John into the alcove that led to the back door of an Indian restaurant.  

John was standing so close that his breath was warm on Sherlock’s cheek.  “Do you think he’s - ”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said.

John pushed up on the balls of his feet to look over Sherlock’s shoulder.  “Don’t see him.”  

“Probably kept walking,” Sherlock murmured.  

“We may still be able to catch him,” John said, steadying himself with a hand on Sherlock’s hip.  “Do you think - ”

And that’s when Sherlock leaned down and kissed him.  His lips were cold and a bit chapped and tasted like the stale coffee he’d finished drinking hours ago, and his grip on Sherlock’s hip tightened to the point of bruising.  The alley smelled like it had recently contained a very large skip.  Across the street, someone began shouting in Polish.  

It was _marvelous_.

“Um,” John said as Sherlock pulled away.  “Did you just - ”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.  “Was that not - ” 

“No, it was,” John said.  “Um.  Fine.  More than fine.  Definitely - yes.”

They stared at each other.  Sherlock wondered if there was a step he was missing.  “The other night you said - ”

“I know what I said the other night,” John said.  “I wasn’t sure if _you_  knew what I said the other night.”

“I drew some conclusions,” Sherlock said.

“Apparently,” John said.  “Er.  Shall we - the suspect?  Surely he’s - ”

“It wasn’t him,” Sherlock said.

John opened his mouth, then closed it.  “Sorry, what?”

“I realized it as we were - you know,” Sherlock said.  “The suspect has a dog; that man didn’t, you could tell by his boots.  If he showed up tonight, we missed him.”

“Right,” John said.  “That’s - yes.  Okay.  Well.  That’s too bad.  Home, then?”

“I think so,” Sherlock said.

They stared at each other.

“You’re still touching me,” Sherlock said.

“Right,” John said, snatching his hand away.

-

The cab was very, very warm.

“You’re panicking,” Sherlock said.

“No, I’m not,” John said.

There was a pause.

“Well,” John said.  “Maybe.  A bit.”

“That’s all right,” Sherlock said.  “I am too.”

“I just think this - ”

“Yes, I agree.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say,” John said.

“You were going to say, ‘I just think that this could go very poorly.’”

“Oh.  Yeah, that was it.”

“You’re right,” Sherlock said.  “I have no experience with relationships of any sort, except the fake kind, which I assume I shouldn’t emulate, not to mention the fact that I am, by essentially all measures, an extremely difficult person to get along with under the best of circumstances.”

“I was actually going to say that my track record is absolute shit,” John said.  “But yeah, your points also work.”

“So what do we do now?” Sherlock said.

“Well,” John said.  “People normally - um.  See what happens?”

“That’s all?” 

“I’m sorry, did you think I’d have an itinerary printed out for you?”

“Baker Street,” the cabbie said, pulling up to the pavement.

John opened the door and jumped out; Sherlock threw some bills at the cabbie and slid out after him, wondering if he’d bollocksed things up already.  Other people somehow made it through _years_ ; he thought he’d have lasted an hour, at least.

“Look,” John said, pausing with his key in the lock, “can we just - ”

“Of course,” Sherlock said.

“All right, if this is ever going to work,” John said, “you are going to have to start letting me say things.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said.  “Right.”

John raised his eyebrows.

“You were going to say ‘can we just talk about this tomorrow’,” Sherlock said.

“Jesus sodding christ,” John said, turning the key.

-

“What are you doing here?” Mycroft said.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  “I live here.”

“I was talking to Rosamund,” Mycroft said, flicking Sherlock the type of glance you might give something under a microscope in Molly’s lab.  “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“It’s Christmas hols.”  Rosie rolled her eyes.  “Obviously.”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Sherlock echoed.

“Of course,” Mycroft said.  “How silly of me.”

“Go away, Mycroft, I’m about to win,” Sherlock said.  “Rosie?”

“Hmm,” Rosie said.  She tapped her chin thoughtfully and then grinned.  “Go fish!”

“Ugh,” Sherlock said, dropping his head back onto the sofa in defeat.  “How did I miss that?”  

“So glad we paid for all those years of public school,” Mycroft said.  “A small fortune very well spent.”

Sherlock wrapped his dressing gown around himself more tightly.  “Do you have a _reason_  to be here, Mycroft, or did you come just to mock me?”

“No, that was merely a fortunate coincidence,” Mycroft said.  “I’ve come to discuss Christmas.”

“I’d like an iPad,” Rosie said immediately.

“Ignore her,” Sherlock said.  “Mummy’s expecting us, I imagine?”

“At two o’clock in the afternoon,” Mycroft said.  “You’re to bring a salad.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said.  “She noticed your extra stone.”

“Hyperbole does not become you, brother mine,” Mycroft said.  “It’s barely five pounds.”

“Mmm, give or take,” Sherlock said.  “Rosie, what do you think, does Mycroft look fat?”

Rosie considered it.  “I don’t know,” she said slowly.

“She thinks you might get her the iPad,” Sherlock translated.

“I might,” Mycroft said, raising his eyebrows.

“I think you look wonderful,” Rosie said promptly.

“She’s a good liar,” Sherlock said.

“Well, with so many fine examples, one would hope,” Mycroft said.  

“Is there anything else?” Sherlock said.  “I’m afraid we’re _terribly_  busy right at the moment.”

Mycroft arched one eyebrow.  “Something’s going on with you.  You’re… different.”

“Yes, the passage of time has effects.  Shall I give you a trophy?”

“ _Sherlock_.”

“ _What_ ,” Sherlock said exasperatedly.

Mycroft’s face was doing something strange.  Was it trying to look… interested?  Concerned?   _Caring_?   

“Stop that,” Sherlock said.  “It’s disturbing.”

Mycroft smiled, which was even worse.  “This isn’t over.”

“Is it ever?” Sherlock muttered.

-

“A fungus!” Sherlock said.

“Oh, hello,” Molly said.  “A fungus?”

“Hi Molly,” John said.  “He’s talking about the victim from Camden Town.”

“I need his feet,” Sherlock said.  “Have you still got them?”

“Um, yes,” Molly said.  “You’re the only one who ever takes my feet.  That is, feet from my bodies.  Not _my_  bodies - ”

“So you still have them,” John said, saving them all.

“Yes,” Molly said.  “Do you want just the feet, or?”

“No, I’ll look at the whole thing,” Sherlock said.

“All right, I’ll bring him out,” Molly said.

“Molly, is this mistletoe?” John said, arching an eyebrow at the doorway.

“Oh, yes!” Molly said.  “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“Um,” John said, “well, we’re in a morgue, so.”

“Oh, well, yes,” Molly said, “but no one really comes down here except me - no one alive, that is, ha ha, so really it’s just, um, for decoration.”

“Right,” John said.  “It’s nice.”

“Thanks!” Molly said, genuinely pleased at one of the weakest compliments Sherlock had ever witnessed.  “I’ll go get the gentleman with the feet.  I mean, they’ve all got feet, but - anyway.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said as she disappeared into cold storage.  He wondered if he had time to break into her computer; he wasn’t particularly interested in anything on it, but he considered it a kindness to show Molly how unwise it was to use her cat’s name as _any_  part of her password, even if you replaced the “o” with “0” - 

“Sherlock,” John said, reaching out and grabbing his wrist.

“Hm?”

“Look,” John said.

“At what?”

“Just,” John said, “ _up_.”

Sherlock looked.  He was standing under the mistletoe.

“Oh,” Sherlock said.

John took a step forward, cleared his throat, and then kissed Sherlock, very softly, on the lips.

“We just had our second kiss in a _morgue_ ,” Sherlock said, delighted.

“Let’s not make a habit of it,” John said.  

-

“A date,” Sherlock said, dropping the corpse’s wrist.

“You think he choked on a date?” John said.

“No, he was poisoned, obviously,” Sherlock said.  “I meant us.”

“A date,” John repeated.  

“Yes,” Sherlock said.  “Should we go on one?”

“I,” John said.  He looked down at the dead man, who hadn’t foamed at the mouth but was still obviously the victim of a poisoning, likely a criminal one if the scuffs on his brand new shoes had anything to say about it.  “What?”

“They’re customary,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, I’m aware,” John said.  “You don’t usually ask about them over dead bodies, though.”

Sherlock stood up.  “Understood.  If you’re not interested in - ”

“I didn’t say that,” John said, rising quickly.  “Sorry, you just - I wasn’t thinking, just then, about that.  Because of the body.  It wasn’t a natural connection, for me.  Would _you_  like to go on a date?”

“I suppose,” Sherlock said.

“Well then,” John said, “good.  We will.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said.

“Okay,” John said.

“Any thoughts?” Lestrade said, poking his head in from the hallway.

“Poison,” Sherlock said.

“Great,” Lestrade said.  “Is there something else?  You two look - ”

“Nope,” John said.

-

“Why have they got a doll?” Sherlock muttered.

“I’m sorry,” John said under his breath, “what?”

“The doll in the basket,” Sherlock said.  “What’s it for?”

“Have you never seen a nativity play?”

“Is it supposed to look alive?  It doesn’t look alive at all.”

“It’s the Baby Jesus,” John said.  “You do know the story, don’t you?”

“I must have deleted it,” Sherlock said.  

“Shh,” a woman in front of them said over her shoulder.

“Sorry,” John whispered.  

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  It’s not like the woman in front was missing anything; the children were all terrible actors, and anyway her son clearly had a non-speaking role.  He was the sheep, possibly.  

“Do you remember that murderer who carried around the doll?” Sherlock said, after three minutes of tortured silence.

“I try not to,” John said.

“It looked a bit like that doll,” Sherlock said.  “Do you think I should tell them that a murderer carried around a doll that looks like their Baby Jesus?”

“SHHH!” hissed Ms. Busybody in front of them, glaring at Sherlock as if she hoped her annoyance might make him feel ashamed (it didn’t). 

“If you say another word about the doll,” John breathed into Sherlock’s ear, “I’ll pinch you.”

“You’ll _pinch_  me?”

John raised his eyebrows as if to say, _What of it_?

Sherlock frowned at him and refocused on the so-called nativity play.  Rosie was one of the three wise men, and doing an admirable job, in Sherlock’s opinion, despite the lack of support from the rest of the cast.  John had even drawn a reasonable beard onto her. 

Sherlock opened his mouth and said, “I just think the doll would be less _distracting_  if - ”

And that’s when John followed through on his threat and pinched him on the thigh. 

Sherlock took five seconds to be enormously surprised and then pinched John back.  John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pinned it to his knee and held it there firmly, without looking at it, and Sherlock wiggled his hand a bit, and John clamped down harder and laced his fingers through Sherlock’s, and then Sherlock realized they were _holding hands_. 

Sherlock turned back to the nativity play and, despite his genuine best efforts, failed to pay it any attention at all.

-

“Sex doesn’t alarm me,” Sherlock said.

John paused with his glass raised halfway to his mouth.  “Pardon?” 

“Sex,” Sherlock said.  “It doesn’t alarm me.”

“Okay,” John said.  “That’s - um.  Good.”

“Does it alarm you?”

“Um, no,” John said.  “This conversation alarms me, a bit.  You know it’s the middle of the night?”

Sherlock hadn’t noticed, but he replied, “Of course.”

“Right,” John said.  

“I just thought it might be relevant,” Sherlock said.  “Now that we’ve - ”

“Yes,” John said.  “I remember.”

“I meant with a man,” Sherlock said.  “Does sex with a man alarm you?”

“I’ve never really thought about it,” John said.  “Sorry, no, that’s a lie.  I’ve thought about it.”

“You’ve thought about it?” 

“Yes.”

“Since when have you thought about it?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose.  “Um, when did we meet?” 

Sherlock swallowed.

“It alarms me - um, a bit,” John said. “Mostly because I’ve never done it.  So that’s a bit alarming.  But not - in a bad way.”

“It alarms you in a good way?”

“Sherlock, I just came down to get a glass of water,” John said.

“Right,” Sherlock said.  “I just thought - ”

“I know,” John said.  “It’s just - it’s a bit of a 180, right?  Eleven days ago I asked you to go to the office holiday party and now you want to talk about our sex life.”

“ _Our_  - ” Sherlock began.

“Oh, god,” John said.  “I need some time, okay?  To think.”

“To think about what?” Sherlock said.

“To think about how to not utterly fuck this up like I have every other relationship of my entire life,” John said.

“Oh,” Sherlock said.

“And I lied, again, because actually, sex alarms me enormously, but not because it would be with a man, because it would be with _you_ ,” John said.

“Ah,” Sherlock said.  “Well.  If it helps, I lied too.”

“Yes, I thought perhaps you had,” John said.  “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night,” Sherlock said.

-

“I don’t need any body parts,” Sherlock said.

“What?” Molly said from the doorway.  

“But I suppose since you’ve brought them, you can put them in the fridge,” Sherlock said, waving a hand at the kitchen.  “Try not to mix them up with John’s leftovers.  He hates when that happens.”

“I haven’t got any body parts, actually,” Molly said.  “I’m here to pick up Rosie.  We’re going to make Christmas biscuits!”

“Oh,” Sherlock said.  He slouched even further into the sofa.  “That’s disappointing.”

“Ignore him,” John said, tucking a scarf around Rosie’s neck.  “He’s in a strop because the criminals have decided to take Christmas off.”

“Works out for me,” Molly said brightly.  “I get to take it off too.”

“Are we making gingerbread biscuits?” Rosie said from beneath an unnecessary number of layers.

“I prefer sugar,” Sherlock said.  

“They’re not for you,” Rosie said.

“ _Some_  of them are for me.”

“We’ll make both,” Rosie said, because growing up in 221b had inured her to difficult compromises.

“There we are,” John said, topping her off with a hat that might have been appropriate had Rosie been headed to the Arctic Circle.  “Be good for Aunt Molly, all right?  You do want Father Christmas to come, after all.”

“I’m sure he’s coming,” Rosie said confidently, taking Molly’s hand as they headed down the stairs.  “I wrote him a _very_  nice letter.”

“You shouldn’t connect good behavior to presents,” Sherlock said once the door to 221b had closed behind them.  “She’ll think she only has to be good if she gets something in return.”

“Hm, and where could she have learnt that from, do you think?” John said.  “D’you need anything while I’m out?”

“Where are you going?” Sherlock said, sitting up quickly.

  
“Shopping,” John said.  “I’ve got to pick up a few more presents, and the bloody salad your mum requested.”

“That’s Mycroft’s fault,” Sherlock said promptly.  “Should I come with you?”

“Do you need to buy something?  No one’s expecting Christmas presents from you.”

“Well, that’s good, because I wasn’t planning to buy any,” Sherlock said.  “I just meant - would you like me to come?”

“Would I like you to come shopping?” John said.  “Um.  Do you _want_  to come shopping?”

Sherlock tilted his head.  “Yes?” he said, because he thought that might be the right answer.

“Okay, then,” John said.

-

“Why do people _do_  this?” Sherlock said, mystified.

“What,” John said, “go shopping on Christmas Eve?  Dunno.  Masochists, probably.  Or just poor planners.  D’you think Molly would like these gloves?”

“Her mum sent her new mittens last week,” Sherlock said.

“Mm,” John said, dropping them back in the box.  A woman carrying more Harrod’s bags than Sherlock would have thought existed in the entirety of London bumped into him and then continued on her way without apologizing.

“Probably not paying attention because she’s too busy thinking about how she’s maxed out all her credit cards,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.  

“That’s Christmas for you,” John said.  

“The annual excuse for collective seasonal madness.”

“Deck the halls, and all that,” John said.  

“That man there, at the jewelry counter?  He’s about the buy the _exact_  same bracelet for his wife and his girlfriend.”  Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “Christmas doesn’t bring out the best in people, it brings out the _worst_ : materialistic, short-sighted, drunken, selfish and extremely poor with their money.”

“You are the true embodiment of the Christmas spirit,” John said.  “Perhaps we ought to set you up in your very own Santa’s Grotto?”

“It’s not my fault you still had shopping to do on Christmas Eve,” Sherlock said disdainfully.  

“No, it’s not,” John said.  “Which is why I cannot for the _life_  of me figure out what you’re doing here.”

Sherlock frowned at him.  “You were going shopping.”

“Yes,” John said.  “Correct.  And you came along, for reasons that remain entirely a mystery.”

“I,” Sherlock began, and then paused.  “I thought I was supposed to come.”

“ _Supposed_  to come?” John said.  “You’ve been nothing but a nuisance, so no, I do not think you were supposed to come.  In fact I’m fairly certain we both would have been better off if you’d stayed home.”

“I mean, people _do_  this, don’t they?” Sherlock said, waving a hand at the teeming masses.  

“Clearly, yes,” John said.  “People do this.   _You_  don’t do this, but - ”

“I mean _couples_  do this,” Sherlock said.

“Ah,” John said.  He paused and pressed his lips together.  “Yes.  Couples go shopping together.”

“That’s what I thought,” Sherlock said, wondering exactly where he’d gone wrong.

“But _we_  - Sherlock, we’re not like most people,” John said.  “Most couples haven’t lived together for nearly a decade when they start - you know.  Most couples aren’t already raising a five year old.  Most couples don’t have someone like you, someone who’s so - ”

“Inexperienced?” Sherlock suggested, just as John said, “Extraordinary.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said.

“We don’t have to do things like that,” John said.  “Normal couple things.  I mean, I’d like if we did _some_  normal couple things - ” and here he laughed weakly and looked down at the pile of sweaters in front of him, which Sherlock found mystifying for five whole seconds before it hit him, “ - but mostly I’d like it if we kept solving crimes and taking care of Rosie and definitely not ever, _ever_  going shopping together.  Ever.  All right?”

“Fine by me,” Sherlock said.

“Good,” John said.  

“So we _are_  a couple, then?”

“Honestly, we were ever not?” John said.  “Do you think this color would look good on Molly?”

“She’s more of a lavender,” Sherlock said.

  
“Right,” John said.  

-

“Rosie’s asleep,” John announced.

Sherlock did what he normally did when people commented on things that happened every day, like the sun setting or people being stupid or children giving into their circadian rhythms: absolutely nothing.

“Bit of a struggle,” John said, settling himself on the other end of the sofa.  “She’s excited.  Since it’s Christmas tomorrow, and all.”

“Mycroft bought her the iPad,” Sherlock contributed.

“Damn him,” John said.  “D’you think he’s trying to turn her against us?”

“Probably.”

“Hm.”  John cleared his throat.  “Anyway, she’s - um - she’s definitely asleep.”

“You mentioned,” Sherlock said.

“Like, really, completely asleep.”

“I’m sorry, did you _drug_  her or something?” Sherlock said.

“ _I’m trying to say_ ,” John began, and then lowered his voice, glancing at the stairs.  “I’m trying to say,” he began again, “she’s _asleep_.  Which means she won’t _bother_  us.  If - um.”

Sherlock blinked.  “Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“I mean,” John said, “you said last night it doesn’t alarm you -  ”

“It doesn’t,” Sherlock said quickly.  “But _you_  said last night you needed to think about - ”

“Yeah, I didn’t need to think about _that_  part,” John said.  “I needed to think about all the rest of it.”

“And you’ve thought about it sufficiently since last night?” Sherlock said.

“Er, no,” John said.  “In fact I’ve mostly thought about that part.  To the exclusion of almost everything else.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said.

“Been a bit of a long day.”

  
“Yes,” Sherlock said.  “So.  Rosie’s asleep, you said?”

-

“Sorry,” Sherlock said.

“No, it’s okay, just watch your knee when - ”

“Maybe I should stand up while I take my shirt off?”

“No, you don’t have to - here, I’ll just - ”

-

“Oh _fuck_.”

“Was that not - ”

“No, _no_ , it definitely was - ”

“I just wasn’t sure if - ”

“Yeah, look, Sherlock, if it’s not good, I’ll tell you, but that was _definitely_  - ”

“You meant ‘fuck’ in a good way, then?”

“In a very, _very_  good - ”

-

“What are you laughing at?”

“It’s just - you’ve got about twelve elbows going here, I think - ”

“Excuse you, I’m _extremely_  coordinated.”

“You’re extremely coordinated when you’ve got your trousers on, but without them you’re apparently just as clumsy as us mere mortals - ”

-

“Is it always like that?” Sherlock said, once he’d caught his breath.

“Um,” John said, his chest rising and falling beneath Sherlock’s cheek, “no.  Not in my experience, no.  That was - er, rather better than usual.”

  
“Well, I am a _genius_ ,” Sherlock said, to cover the stupid grin threatening to take over his face.  

John pulled up the duvet, which had been kicked to the floor at some point, and pulled it up to their chins.  There were several minutes of what might, by some people, be called “cuddling.”  Sherlock did his absolute best not to enjoy it, and failed rather dramatically.

“So,” John said finally, just when Sherlock was starting to worry that he was about to become an absolute stereotype and fall asleep, “your parents.”

“Do people generally talk about their parents right after sex?”

John ignored him.  “We’re seeing them tomorrow.”

“Again, I feel like this is a conversation that could happen when we’re not naked.”

“Did you want to, you know, tell them?”

Sherlock hesitated.  “I don’t think we’ll need to.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Well.  They’ll know.”  

“They’ll _know_?”

“Mycroft had an inkling last week.”

“Mycroft had a - Sherlock, _I_  barely had an inkling last week.”

“And Mummy - well,” Sherlock said.  “We had to get it from somewhere, didn’t we?”

“Christ,” John said.  “All right.  That’s - well, I should have expected it.”

“If it helps, my father won’t notice a thing,” Sherlock said.

“Thank god for small favors, I suppose,” John said.

“He’s terribly unobservant.  Like you, in that way.”

“Oi,” John said.

“Wears horrible jumpers, too,” Sherlock said.  “The resemblance is actually a bit disturbing, now that I think about it.”

“All right, that’s enough out of you,” John said, rolling on top of him and leaning down, presumably to kiss him into silence - and then he froze. 

Sherlock heard it too.  “That’s - ”

And that’s when John rolled right off of him and threw himself off the other side of the bed, just as the door opened and Rosie burst in.

“Is Daddy here?” she said around a yawn.

“No,” Sherlock said, pulling the duvet, which had stayed in place through John’s exceedingly inelegant swan dive, up to his neck.

“But I heard his voice,” Rosie said.

“No, you didn’t,” Sherlock said.

“Then where is he?” Rosie said.

“Out.”  

“But it’s the middle of the night!  On Christmas Eve!” 

“Yes, well, he’s,” and Sherlock paused and closed his eyes, resigning himself, “he’s helping Father Christmas.”

Rosie’s eyes went wide.  “Really?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.  “Really.”

“He’s with Father Christmas _now_?  Does that mean he’s one of his elves?”

Sherlock made sure his face was very, very controlled before he replied, “Yes.”

“Wow!” Rosie said, clearly delighted.

“You ought to go back to sleep so they can bring your presents.”

“But you’re sure he’ll be back by morning?” Rosie said.

“Only if you go to bed straight away,” Sherlock said.

“I’m going, I’m going!” Rosie said, slamming the door behind her.

Sherlock waited until the creak of the floorboards above his head indicated that Rosie had jumped back into bed.  “You can probably come out now.”

“Lovely, thanks,” John said dryly.

-

Sherlock had been pretending to be asleep on the sofa in his parents’ parlor for seventeen minutes when his father said, “We’re very happy for you two, you know.”

The fire crackled.  In the next room, Rosie giggled loudly; Mummy was undoubtedly stuffing her full of biscuits, which would make it impossible to get her to bed later.  Finally, after the earth had gone round the sun a few times, John said, “Mm.”

“Their mother told me,” Father said, a bit apologetically.  “You know how nothing gets past any of them.”

“Yeah, I’m familiar,” John said.  “It’s fine, it’s - of course it’s fine.”

A piece of wood collapsed in the fire; Sherlock could imagine the flutter of sparks.

“I used to worry about him,” Father said.  “Before he found you.”

“And you don’t worry anymore?” John said.

“Oh, no,” Father said.  “Now I worry about both of you.”

John huffed a laugh.  Sherlock burrowed further into the sofa cushion and listened to the fire, and the quiet, and, finally, actually fell asleep.

-

“Enjoy your fake nap?” John said, pulling on his coat.

“It wasn’t fake,” Sherlock protested.

“Oh, like I don’t know when you’re shamming,” John dismissed.  “He wanted you to hear him, anyway.”

“Of course he did,” Sherlock said.  “Family is so tiresome.”

“I don’t know,” John said, slinging Sherlock’s scarf around his neck and using it to pull his head down.  “I rather like ours.”

Sherlock kissed him to avoid having to think of a response that didn’t include a stupid, soppy grin.   “Two glasses of mulled wine is apparently your limit these days,” he said against John’s mouth.

“I don’t need to be drunk to want to get you home and out of these clothes,” John said, nipping at his lower lip.

“Honestly,” Mycroft said, appearing from the parlor holding a sleeping Rosie, “having a snog in your parents’ foyer - are you two sixth formers?” 

“Just because your heart is black and withered doesn’t mean everyone’s is, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, easing Rosie out of his brother’s arms.  

“ _Now_  it feels like Christmas,” John said fondly.

-

“Have a nice lie in?” John said, not looking up from his paper.

“Mm,” Sherlock said, rubbing at his eyes and flopping onto the sofa, his dressing gown spilling out around him.  “I suppose I needed it, considering I was up half the night.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining at the time,” John said under his breath as Rosie skidded down the stairs.

“Sherlock!” she said, grabbing his arm.  “There’s a present for you under the tree!  It says it’s from Father Christmas!”

“A present?” Sherlock said.  “But Christmas was yesterday.”

“Perhaps he forgot a few things in his first go round,” John said.  

Sherlock cracked an eye open.  “Perhaps he enjoys the Boxing Day sales.”    

“Bit crowded for his tastes, but needs must,” John said, setting down his paper.  “Rosie, why don’t you get Sherlock his present?”

-

_Dear Father Christmas_ ,

_Thank you very much for all of my Christmas gifts this year!  I love my Barbie and thanks for telling Uncle Mycroft about the iPad!_

__

_Mostly though I wanted to say thank you for the present you brought for Sherlock even though it came a day late.  I’m not really sure why he needed a lock for his bedroom door, but him and Daddy laughed about it for a long time so I guess he liked it!_

__

_Happy Boxing Day and talk to you next year!_

__

_From,_

_Rosie Watson_

_Age 5 and three quarters going on 6_


End file.
